#hiking

Promising Sign.

/ Brett Ann Stanciu / 2 Comments

Mist lies on the valley these mornings, indicative more of mid-August than this tail-end of July. 2023, the Vermont year with scant summer, thus far.

Nonetheless, on a ravishingly beautiful Sunday morning, we walk along the rail trail beside the Lamoille River. The trail is closed due to the flood’s multiple wash-outs, and there’s no bikers, but by foot and dog paw the walking is easy enough. The debris along the river is appalling. Two by fours with outlets lodge in treetops. We follow the silt and gravel, studying the way the river lifted, changed its course.

This morning, thrush chortle, and the cicadas hum their midsummer serenade. Distantly, across the river and hayfields, traffic grinds along Route 15. Where we stand, my daughter and I would have drowned, three weeks ago, as the river howled and smashed its way west, and then north to the sea.

Now, easy-going end of July.

I glean a washed-sparkling piece of white quartz, half the length of my thumb, in the shape of Vermont, and slip it into my pocket. I’d written exactly this rock and shape and size into the beginning and end of my novel. An auspicious sign — imagination incarnate — or hopeful dreaming at least.

…. Last, I’ve been generously invited to read at Meadow Meeting House, Corinth, Vermont, with the esteemed Alexander Chee, this Wednesday, August 2, 4:30 p.m. Please come if you can.

Not Going Broke.

/ Brett Ann Stanciu / 3 Comments

Sunday afternoon, the board of the local food co-op hosted a meeting, posing the question: buy a building a few blocks down and encumber the co-op with a million-dollar debt, or stay in the tiny, owned-outright space? Philosophically and financially, the debate was heated.

I leaned against the pavilion’s post, listening, drinking my tea. Around us, fallen leaves rustled across the grass. My cheeks burned with windburn from that morning’s hike with my daughters. We climbed to a cliff and looked down at a glacial lake, the surface choppy with white caps. On our way home, we stopped at the beach of this enchanting lake, mountains rising steeply on either side. A bald eagle dove into the wind, its head and tail whiter than snow.

Before the meeting ended, I packed up my knitting and headed home, still thinking about that eagle.

From one of my childhood favorite reads — and from a paperback still on my shelf…

The maple tree in front of the doorstep burned like a gigantic red torch. The oaks along the roadway glowed yellow and bronze. The fields stretched like a carpet of jewels, emerald and topaz and garnet. Everywhere she walked the color shouted and sang around her … In October any wonderful unexpected thing might be possible.”

— Elizabeth George Speare, The Witch of Blackbird Pond

Lake Willoughby, Vermont

Butterflies and Crickets

/ Brett Ann Stanciu / 1 Comment

On a balmy afternoon, I’m on Nature Conservancy Property in Greensboro, Vermont — Barr Hill — the first place my daughters hiked. Nearby lies the glassy blue gem of Lake Caspian.

On my short drive there, I’d been listening to the governor’s twice weekly press conference. By now, like so many people in the state, I’m familiar with Scott’s voice, his cabinet members, and the press. Scott allows the press to ask question after question; these sessions have an interesting kind of intimacy, a we’re going to get through this kind of attitude.

On my way along Barr Hill, I pass rusting old farm equipment in fields where cows are grazing. Here, the past is both near and hidden.

In a field, I paused and admired the view of the mountains and the line of lake. The sky these days is slightly overcast with smoke from the west coast wildfires. Around me, butterflies flew over the blooming goldenrod, and crickets leaped in the dusty path around my feet.

I had such a sense of living in an historic time — the Covid pandemic — and yet I just soaked up that all that sunlight, those tiny flickering wings.